


Castles

by MintJam



Series: Live a lie [16]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, F/M, Injury, M/M, crosswords, emotional numbskulls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 11:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25968919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintJam/pseuds/MintJam
Summary: On the surface, Tommy was holding it together — holding everyone together — pulled taut, like a canvas stretched in all directions. His family, the vendetta, the factories, the communists — all were tugging at his edges, but the pulling made Tommy stronger. Rigid.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: Live a lie [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1410712
Comments: 95
Kudos: 151





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the surface, Tommy was holding it together — holding everyone together — pulled taut, like a canvas stretched in all directions. His family, the vendetta, the factories, the communists — all were tugging at his edges, but the pulling made Tommy stronger. Rigid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> Follows on directly from Burnt (and John's death). And when I say directly, I mean around about 18 months later. Probably won't make an awful lot of sense unless you've read the 'Live a Lie' series.
> 
> And yes, this was going to be the 4th chapter of Burnt, but it got too long so I separated it out. Honestly, I confuse myself.
> 
> Sorry this has been such a long time coming!  
> (See the end of the work for more notes.)

Lizzie stares at the ceiling and wonders for the hundredth time how her life could have spun so dramatically on the axis of one tiny decision. Beside her, the bed is empty and she can hear Ruby fretting down the hall. The panic-stricken wail that woke her moments ago has already softened, but she grabs her robe and wanders out onto the landing nonetheless. 

She finds Tommy in the nursery, as expected, cradling the baby on his shoulder. He’s staring out of the large window at the almost-full moon, muttering and shushing quietly. Lizzie stays in the shadows, just outside the doorway, and listens. It should fill her heart with warmth, watching her husband soothe their child. Any normal wife would be delighted to have a man so attentive that he would get up in the night to tend a baby. But Tommy isn't any normal husband. And he's only up because he doesn't sleep. Lizzie shivers and waits.

She curses the night-nurse, Maggie. The girl is supposed to manage the night feeds, and make it to the nursery before Tommy does. Perhaps it's one of those nights when he was already in here, watching Ruby sleep. Perhaps he woke her, like he does when things are really bad, ".. _.to check she's fucking rea_ l." Lizzie watches and tries to tell from his body language how much he might have drunk. What else he might have taken. His movements are sluggish as he rubs Ruby's back; she's gone quiet, but it won't last — she's chewing one chubby hand furiously.

“Tom," Lizzie whispers. 

He doesn’t respond. He nuzzles his cheek into the baby’s head and holds the back of her neck. Lizzie doesn’t think he’d do anything to harm his daughter … certainly not deliberately … but at the same time he's hard to get through to sometimes. Especially at night. He talks to people that aren’t there, gets lost in his head and his dreams. Sometimes she wonders if Solomons died after all, because surely the living can’t haunt you? She tries to stay calm.

"Let me take her, Tommy.”

"S'not her fault, eh?" he says, turning slightly. Lizzie has no idea what he's talking about but experience tells her it’s easier to play along when he’s like this — his eyes as empty as a poisoned lake. 

"No," Lizzie agrees. "It's not her fault.”

"None of this.”

"She's hungry, Tom.”

Maggie appears at that moment, holding up the warmed bottle. She hesitates when she sees that it's Tommy holding the baby (they're all terrified of him). Lizzie couldn't bring herself to breastfeed. It had felt wrong somehow, to put that tainted flesh into her baby's mouth after all the men who'd slathered over it. She wonders whether Grace breastfed Charlie, whether it's another way she'll never measure up. She won’t ask; she's already living in so many shadows it's a wonder she's visible at all. She's not sure she is visible to Tommy.

“He was already in here,” Maggie mouths. Lizzie rolls her eyes and shakes her head as she takes the bottle from the girl’s hand. Ruby is starting to fret again, turning her head into Tommy’s neck in an instinctive search for sustenance. 

“Tommy,” Lizzie says, more urgently, as she reaches out for her child.

Tommy turns and in one swift motion snatches the bottle from her hand. He takes it to the armchair by the window. She notices the strange bruises on his inner arms that appear when he's in a particularly black mood. She asked about them once and she won't make the same mistake twice. She wants to take Ruby back, but the glare Tommy gives her as he sits down is so vicious she thinks better of insisting. 

“I think you’ll find I’ve done this a few more times than you,” he says.

She knows he hasn't forgiven her, that he probably never will, but why does he have to keep punishing her? Humiliating her in front of the staff? It's enough that they all know he rarely sleeps in Lizzie's room; he retreats to the bedroom he shared with Alfie where no one's allowed to enter. Not to draw the curtains or serve tea or even to clean the sheets.

Lizzie peers over her shoulder at Maggie, who's still hovering in the doorway, and dismisses her with a jerk of her neck.

"Tommy," she whispers quietly, but he's list inside his head.

Polly and Arthur had both begged her.

"You have to save him from himself," Polly had said.

"You've always been able to get through to him. Just put an end to this nonsense.” 

Lizzie had point-blank refused. She knew Tommy well enough to see that whatever he felt for Solomons was real, much as she hated him for it. 

But that was before John had been killed; before Tommy had blamed himself; before Arthur had blamed Solomons and gone digging about in London to find some other way to drive a wedge between his brother and _‘that Jewish bastard_.’ As if John’s death and Tommy’s guilt hadn’t done enough already. 

Lizzie hadn't expected it to work, but then she hadn't bet on the zeal ignited in Arthur by grief and hatred. Somehow or other he'd dredged up this Zacharias figure from Camden — some kid who'd found himself on the wrong side of the canal, and, from there, in Solomons' lap. Just the once, by all accounts — during the Russian business. But it was all the ammunition Arthur had needed to seal Solomons' fate. Lizzie had begged Arthur to wait, to be careful with the news. She could see how fragile Tommy was in the weeks after John's death in a way that Arthur chose not to notice.

On the surface, Tommy was holding it together — holding everyone together — pulled taut, like a canvas, stretched in all directions. His family, the vendetta, the factories, the communists — all were pulling at his edges, but the pulling made Tommy stronger. Rigid. 

Until the rent-boy.

Until Arthur stood in Tommy's office and shared the name and the date, spelled out the implications of betrayal in case the details had eluded his brother. As if anything ever eluded Tommy. That was the knife that nicked the canvas.

Lizzie remembers it vividly, the way Tommy stood behind his desk, weight leant on his wide-arched hands. He didn't move a muscle, but Lizzie swore he tore in two.

“Was there something else, Arthur?” was all Tommy said, several aching seconds later, before dismissing them all with no more than the arch of his eyebrow and set of his jaw.

She hadn’t been all that surprised when he appeared at her door that night. Drunk, morose, pressing her against the wall before she had a chance to protest. Not that she would have done anyway. She took what scraps Tommy offered — like she always had, like she always would — knowing full well that each of them was desperate for something the other could never provide. They hated each other for it. Openly now. Perhaps that made it a more honest marriage than most.

She's kidding herself, of course. She can't ever really hate Tommy. She can see too clearly beneath the cold, disdainful face he wears for the outside world. Can watch him bully and charm and condescend and still see the man who cares too much; who carries the weight of a hundred lives on his shoulders and who, when he dares to sleep at all, wraps his arms over his head as if that weight might crush him. He has her loyalty, he knows that

Perhaps it'll be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, this is short for me, but the other chapters will come quickly! And if anyone is still with me on this, I'd love to hear your thoughts. It's been too long X


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s spent too many hours pondering how many minutes separated the moment John’s breath left his body from the moment he told Alfie, “I love you,” convinced there was a chord of connection somewhere in the universe he’d unwittingly pulled.

Tommy looks down at his daughter and wonders how his chain of mistakes could have led to something so perfect. Sometimes he thinks she’s a beautiful consolation for everything else he can’t have. Charlie in place of Grace. Ruby in place of Alfie. Two reasons he has to keep moving forward whether he wants to or not.

When John died he’d accepted it as his punishment. A vicious reprimand from the universe for putting his own feelings first — for spending that night with Alfie instead of bringing his brother home. The connection between him and Alfie in those hours had felt so profound, so fierce, that it made sense he'd have to pay for it somehow. Everything comes at a price, afterall. The price Tommy paid was his brother.

He’s spent too many hours pondering how many minutes separated the moment John’s breath left his body from the moment he told Alfie, “I love you,” convinced there was a chord of connection somewhere in the universe he’d unwittingly pulled.

He’s done what he's had to since that day, with military precision: slammed the lid on his own thoughts whenever they strayed to Alfie; worn his guilt like a heavy cloak to protect him from himself.

But then Arthur had tracked that kid down, had proven beyond all doubt that the man Tommy loved had cheated. He hated Alfie far more for proving Arthur right than for the filthy deed itself. Tommy had no right to care about the boy — Alfie only fucked him after Tommy himself had slept with Tatiana. But the fact remained that Alfie had put Tommy through hell afterwards, had extracted every ounce of the retribution he'd been offered and enjoyed doing it. He'd beaten Tommy black and blue, until he'd never been so sorry for anything, and throughout it all Alfie never breathed a word of his own infidelity.

Perhaps Tommy could have lived with that too.

But then he’d nearly lost Arthur to the Italians, the one member of the family that needed him most, and the last piece of hope he’d secretly cradled was buried deep in the ground. He couldn’t do it, however much he craved Alfie's warmth, he couldn’t chance pulling another chord. Not with his family at stake. 

He looks down at his daughter now, little fingers wrapped tight around his thumb. It's easy to forget how strong babies are ... how weak full-grown men can be. Even men like Alfie.

It happens like this, sometimes, when Tommy pauses: a fist reaches through the layers of time and grips him in a memory so visceral he struggles to fathom what’s real. How small Alfie’s hand had felt the last time he held it, in a hospital bed, more than a year ago. Not damp and chubby like Ruby’s, but dry and fragile — as loose as a bundle of kindling. 

***

The vendetta was meant to be over by the time they came for Alfie. The telegram said it all:

WE DEALT WITH YOUR FILTHY WHORE.

It had taken three phone-calls and a series of increasingly specific threats for Olly to confirm that Sabini had taken his revenge: Alfie had been shot in the face. Not dead, but close enough.

Tommy remembers the wash of panic, the chaos of thoughts and feelings that made him stride out of his own office to rip the outer office apart.

The girls who worked there scattered like glass caught in a sudden explosion, leaving only Polly and Lizzie to watch as Tommy's temper blazed. He emptied drawers and desks and cabinets; threw stamps and staples, envelopes and betting slips in every direction. His focus had narrowed down to one little signet ring, with all the frayed logic of frenzy. A golden skylark with sapphire eyes that he'd put in the post-tray all those months ago. It was something tangible, something Tommy could do. An immediate distraction from the tremor in his hands (and far easier to think about than the hole in Alfie’s face). He had to find it.

And so he continued his rampage, turning out typewriter cartridges and carbon sheets, pencils and paper and parcel tape. He hurled the franking machine across the floor and threw over the entire mail cabinet on which it had stood. That ring was the difference between life and death; a talisman to be traded with the devil if only he’d let Alfie live; a tiny symbol of love and hope that might just keep Alfie safe.

It was a long time since Tommy had let rage overtake him, but sometimes it led to clarity. Like now. Because suddenly it was so fucking obvious why that ring had never made it to Camden that he stopped to shake his head. Then he took his gun from its holster and shot the locks off Lizzie’s desk … one … two … before Polly hollered, “enough!” 

Smoke rose slowly from the desk as Tommy glared at the two women brave enough to remain in the building.

“Where is it, Lizzie?” he asked, as calmly as he could manage.

“Where is what?” Polly said, looking between them both.

Tommy ignored his aunt entirely, every ounce of his rage focused on Lizzie. "What the _fuck_ did you do with it, eh?"

The look on her face told Tommy she knew exactly what he was talking about. She was already stalking slowly towards the wreckage of her desk, almost as if she'd been waiting for this confrontation and was surprised it had taken so long. The smoke was still rising from the drawer when she pulled out the velvet box. The paper was torn but Alfie’s name and address still visible in Tommy's script. She threw it straight at his feet and spat on it for good measure.

“I didn’t send it,” she said, folding her arms across her chest.

“I fucking know that,” Tommy answered, so livid he couldn't move.

It was Polly who bent down to pick up the box. “What the fuck is this?” she asked.

“Some love-token for that cheating bastard,” Lizzie said. “He didn’t fucking _deserve_ it.”

Inside Tommy’s head was a storm far more violent than the one he’d just created. He glared at Lizzie in disgust and she glared right back at him.

"You'll be pleased to hear he's good as fucking dead," he said, snatching the ring from Polly's hand as he turned to fetch his cap and coat on his way towards the door.

“I’m pregnant,” Lizzie yelled after him.

Tommy didn't even turn round. 

He drove through that night to Margate; five and a half hours spent staring into black rain that fell like a heavy curtain he had to constantly sweep aside.

He tried to defend his aching heart by rousing some buried anger. Tried to imagine Alfie fucking that kid on a dismal towpath, taking his pleasure selfishly without a shred of guilt. But the harder he tried to picture it, the more his thoughts curled away. 

It was two in the morning when he arrived at Margate Cottage Hospital. It looked like a large country house from the street, but once inside, the stale corridors and sprawling mess of extensions sapped any comfort he’d taken from the genteel first impression. He paid handsomely for an assurance they wouldn’t be disturbed until dawn and was led through a series of tacked-on rooms that clung to the back of the building like barnacles on a ship. In one of these lay Alfie, clinging stubbornly to life. 

Everything about the room made Tommy’s skin prickle: the sickly pale-green walls; the stench of sweat and antiseptic; the gritty friction of a cement floor beneath his leather soles. He looked across at the bed, at the face half-hidden by bandages, and thought for more than a moment that he'd been shown to the wrong bloody room. This man was too small. He lifted the clipboard as he skirted the bed and read the name, _Mr Brown_ , exactly as Olly had said. When he looked up again Tommy's breath left his body so fast he wasn’t sure he could drag any more in to replace it. 

The whole left side of Alfie’s face and head was bandaged, which was almost the least shocking thing. His beard had been shaved off — carelessly — and every worldly thing that made Alfie Solomons Alfie Solomons had been stripped away. No rings. No bracelets. No glasses hanging from a fine gold chain. No braces dangling pointlessly over trousers that were already belted. No dusty, layered waistcoats. No cane nestled in his fist. Nothing but a thin, worn hospital blanket outlined his shrunken frame. 

Tommy wanted to throw himself over the body, to prevent anyone else from looking, from seeing Alfie this exposed. Even the full lips were naked, pale and shrivelled from dehydration. Tommy dipped his thumb in a glass of water and wiped it across Alfie’s mouth. He knew too well the misery of waking up parched from morphine on top of the pain.

He stood and stared for a long time, listening to the shallow rattle of Alfie’s breath — in, out ... in, out — before finally drawing up a chair. 

Sorrow descended on him in a way it hadn’t since childhood … since he’d stood helplessly and watched his first horse die, knowing the bullet was for the best but aching for an alternative that simply didn’t exist. 

He wanted to tell Alfie that their time together was the best of his life. That he, too, was cursed to never feel whole again, that he’d relive that curse in a thousand lifetimes just to have what they'd had. Instead, he slid his hand around Alfie’s cool, dry fingers and let his mind explore the alleyways he had closed off to himself for so long. An hour or two of indulgence within the confines of this room.

He thought of copper baths in front of the fire; of cold nights spent in warm arms. Cards and tea on a narrow-boat and feeling almost safe. Ginger cake eaten under a blanket; the shipping forecast at 5am; the heavy rumble of Alfie's chest as it pressed to his back at night. The dread and the thrill of their nights together; hands at his throat and rings in his mouth; the way Alfie took and gave, punished and soothed; looked and learned and watched and _saw_ and made Tommy fly — like a kite — weightless and free and yet _always_ tethered. Connected. Because Alfie never let go. 

It was Tommy himself who had cut the string, the very morning they'd heard of John's death. There was no one else he could blame for it; he'd let himself drift away.

He thought of everything that stood between them — his guilt, his family, their mutual transgressions — and wished, with the naivety of desperation that he could erase it all. That it could be like that night in Watery Lane, when he'd felt so open and understood it was as if they were one single being; a permanent tangle of bones and blood that could never be separated because the distinctions between them were meaningless and merely corporeal. 

The ugly truth was that his bones and blood were, right this moment, growing in someone else’s body. The thought alone made him so weary he laid his head on the bed against Alfie’s thigh and closed his eyes. How much simpler life would be if he never had to open them again, if he could just fade away, here, and never have to face the morning.

The nightmare that followed when he dozed off was as vivid as any from the war: Alfie was sliced into pieces that floated in the air. Tommy was meant to gather them up and put them back together but the segments refused to stay still, kept slipping and sliding out of place no matter how hard he tried. He became increasingly desperate, searching for tape or string — anything to hold the pieces together and form them into a whole. But the most disturbing thing of all was the way Alfie’s head presided over the scene with a beautific sense of calm. His expression was patient. Fond. Like he couldn’t care less whether Tommy succeeded but was pleased with him for trying.

When Tommy woke there was a nurse in the room, asking if he was alright.

“Just need to check his meds,” she said, although Tommy doubted that’s why she’d come in. “Can I get you anything, Sir?”

“M’fine,” he said, even though he could feel the cold sweat on his face.

The nurse looked at Tommy’s hand holding Alfie’s and quickly looked away.

“He’s a tough one,” she said, quietly. 

Tommy cleared his throat, desperate to ask for details but terrified to know. “How bad is it?” he asked, gesturing at the bandages.

“He’s lost the eye, and most of that cheekbone, but infection’s the biggest concern.”

Tommy rubbed his face in his hand. It was no different than during the war.

“He’s in a lot of pain,” the nurse continued. “But he’s talking now … when the drugs allow.”

“Talking?”

“Nonsense to most of us, honestly, but he seems quite the ornithologist.”

Birds had begun to break the night’s silence when Tommy finally took the velvet box from his pocket. He opened it and knew at a glance that the signet ring was too big for Alfie’s little finger. He had bloody watch-makers hands, didn’t he, Alfie? — slender and clever and careful — nothing like Tommy’s own shovels (no wonder they'd sent him to dig). He worked the ring onto Alfie’s next finger. Perhaps this was too symbolic? Perhaps it wasn’t enough. 

“This is all I can give you,” he whispered. A safeword that couldn’t keep Alfie safe; a skylark that couldn’t sing. A symbol of trust and regret and hope that only Alfie would understand. That maybe he wouldn't accept.

Tommy pressed a final kiss to the gold band; Alfie, didn't respond. Just those same shallow breaths … in, out … in, out.

Tommy left the hospital just as dawn was breaking the sullen sky. He dreaded the thought of who he’d be once he got back in his car. Dreaded having to move on, move up, put another ring on another finger, and channel this grief into something more, for his family if not for himself.

He walked to the beach and stood smoking on the flat, wet sand, watching thickset clouds turn from black to purple to orange, lit by a sun they smothered from view. Above him the seagulls circled, malevolent witnesses to his gloom. If they were waiting to feed on the scraps of his heart then they’d go fucking hungry today; most of it lay in that hospital room and he never wanted it back.

***

He lays Ruby back in her lace-edged crib and crosses the hall to the room he shared with Alfie. He can't keep doing this, he knows that, grieving for someone who isn't dead when others need him more. But _Christ_ how he wants to hide in there, to surround himself in the faded scent and drink himself to oblivion. It takes all his resolve to turn his feet away, to walk towards the heart of the house and open a different door.

"I'm sorry," he whispers as he discards his shoes to crawl beneath the sleep-warm sheets.

"Love you," Charlie replies.

"I love you too," he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm sorry. If you want to come and ask me stuff or chat (or just YELL at me for doing this) then I'm mintjamsblog on tumblr.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the early weeks, the pain of it all had festered in Alfie's chest. He’d wanted to find everyone that took Tommy away from him and slaughter them with his bare hands. Sit in a lake of their still-warm blood and hold Tommy down in it. Smother him in the unctuous scent and not let him go until he looked, and he saw, and he understood how many lives he was worth.

It's a good day, all in all. Better than many of late. The pain in Alfie’s face is no more than a dull ache — persistent, but not overwhelming. He’s sitting on the veranda at the back of his house, looking out at the beach. There's a man walking his dog near the water's edge; Cyril wags his tail at the sight of another mutt. 

“Go on then," Alfie says to him. "Go scare the pants off that little mongrel." He’s met with drool and a wide yawn as the lazy brute beside him slumps onto his paws. "Too much effort, hmm?" Alfie says, reaching over the arm of his wicker chair to stroke Cyril's saggy neck. "Most things are these days, mate. Most things fuckin' well are." 

It's not quite the retirement he'd envisaged. He had dared to hope (if not quite believe) that he might be graced with the occasional presence of one pretty little cunt from Birmingham. But that was before the Italians took John Shelby. And Alfie's left eye. And whatever modicum of self-preservation Tommy Shelby still possessed. 

In the early weeks, the pain of it all had festered in Alfie's chest. He’d wanted to find everyone that took Tommy away from him and slaughter them with his bare hands. Sit in a lake of their still-warm blood and hold Tommy down in it. Smother him in the unctuous scent and not let him go until he _looked_ , and he _saw_ , and he _understood_ how many lives he was worth.

But that level of hatred, of rage, of plain simple _hurt,_ proved impossible to maintain. These days he's content to sit and stare and nurse the ache of loss. To extract the last drops of sweetness from it like a pup suckling at its mother's teat. 

And Alfie has always prided himself on being adaptable. On his ability to take advantage of a change in others' fortunes. This time it just happens to be his own fortunes what 'ave changed. It's no more than he deserves, and probably significantly less; just took him a while to get his head round it, that's all. To realise that the anticipated silence after John's death had grown into a yawning void that would likely extend to Alfie's own grave. Or Tommy's. No telling who'll get there first. 

Cyril whines and Alfie takes a deep breath, forcing it slowly out of his nose with exaggerated control. He doesn't like the taste of resignation, but he don't have much choice in it either.

"You look tense," says a voice behind him.

Alfie growls irritably at being crept up on and draws his gun, aiming it over his shoulder without bothering to turn around. Warm hands slide over his shirt in response and rest either side of his neck.

"Zacharias, you are entirely too fearless for your own fuckin' good," Alfie grumbles. He considers pulling the trigger (just to remind the lad that he _could)_ but decides to be placated by the firm thumbs now rubbing circles into his neck. The gun thuds gently as he places it back on the side table.

Zach starts working Alfie's shoulders, kneading muscles still stiff from a poor night’s sleep. It’s early; can’t be much past eight, and Alfie lets himself relax.

The most frustrating thing about all of this, is that he'd always known it was going to happen. Right from the very first time he kissed Tommy Shelby. Maybe even before that. Knew he’d end up with his heart broken. Knew Tommy would walk away. On an intellectual level, he can take some small pleasure from the fact that his powers of foresight have not failed him entirely (he might not have foreseen the bullet to his face, but what's life without a few curve-balls?)

The thing he _has_ learnt, however, is that it doesn't matter how clearly you know a thing will happen. How much you might rehearse an unpleasant eventuality in your mind, turn it over, try to get used to the shape and the smell and the taste of it — even convince yourself that when that inevitable day arrives you will be ready. You will be familiar. You will be able to pull out the sequence of responses you have mentally practised and run through them in the correct order and thereby pass through to a future state of being with only a manageable modicum of pain. The one thing he has learnt is that the _knowing_ don't cancel out the _hurting_. 

"The thing is, I saw the train coming, didn’t I?” he says slowly.

"The train?" Zach asks, hesitantly.

“I stood on the fuckin' tracks, legs astride, staring at the damn thing head on. And I _chose_ not to move. I _chose_ to stand there, drinkin' in the thrill of it, accepting the impending collision.”

Zach sighs so labouriously that Alfie reconsiders his decision _not_ to shoot at him moments ago. “Oh I am sorry. Am I boring you, mate?"

"No, Alfie. You're wallowing.”

Alfie grunts and rolls his shoulders but Zach's hands don't flinch away. “I am not fuckin’ wallowing. I am examining a truth.”

“What truth would that be, Alfie?”

“None of your _fuckin_ ’ business." Alfie gazes out at the flat horizon; there are no ships this morning, no clouds either, just pale blue as far as the eye can see. Days this calm taunt him.

It's no good, the words won't stay in. "The point is, that when you're looking at that train, head on, there's a tiny part of your brain that believes you're gonna be able to jump out of the way, at the last minute. Avoid it somehow. Or at least get sucked straight under. Bang—" Alfie claps his hands together with a crack so loud it echoes across the sand, "—Quick. Finito. None-the-wiser."

He pauses for effect. "What you aren't expecting, right, is that train to _derail_ before it reaches you. To career off the tracks right before your fuckin' eyes and leave you standing there. Like an idiot." 

“Is this another metaphor, Alfie?”

“Yes, Zacharius, it’s a mother-fucking metaphor. Bloody ‘ell. Finest education money can buy and he still has to fuckin' well ask. Not the sharpest razor on the shelf are you, mate?"

That's not true and Alfie knows it. The kid had a gilt-edged education, for all the good it's done 'im. Still, it doesn't do to flatter his ego.

“So I take it the train is Mr Sh—”

Alfie’s hand flies back to grip Zach’s wrist before he can finish that suggestion. "Are you really trying to sour the mood so early on this fine morning?” he says, clenching harder.

Zach doesn't answer immediately. Not because he's scared, but because he's a manipulative little cunt — it's one of the things Alfie likes about him — endlessly fascinated by the details of Alfie’s former life and prone to overstepping the mark. He knows better than to mention that name in this house though.

"Not trying to sour the mood," Zach says, voice all feigned innocence. 

“You know what I think, Zacharias? I think this conversation would be greatly improved if you stopped contributing to it. Right this fucking second. How about you put that tongue to better use, hmm?” 

Zach pauses to consider that suggestion. “Out here, Alfie?”

“Yes. Out here. Why? You suddenly developed inhibitions?”

“There are people on the beach.”

“I am well aware of that thank you ... I do still have _one_ workin' eye. You think any of them are gonna be interested in watchin' some disfigured old bugger getting sucked off by his …" Alfie gestures vaguely in the air, “... whatever the fuck you are.”

“Companion?” Zach suggests. 

“Mouthy, godless little freeloader, more like.” It’s said with some affection, because whilst Alfie would never admit it, the loneliness is easier to bear with a pretty face to look at. He’s always been an appreciator of beautiful things.

“Go on then, earn your generous salary. And if anyone stares they can choose between an eyeful of your lovely curls or an eyeful of lead.” Alfie waves his gun in the air again. 

Alfie can practically _hear_ Zach rolling his eyes as he moves round to the front of the chair. He nestles himself between Alfie's thighs and glares dramatically at the enormous mound of flesh on the floor.

“Cyril, fuck off, mate,” Alfie orders. Cyril, begrudgingly, obeys.

There's no doubt Zach's more skilled than Tommy ever was in the intricacies of fellatio. Well, he's had more practise, obviously. And okay, he lacks the defiance and the icy glare, but this is _easy._ Easy to accept. Easy to sink into. No strings or emotions to clutter everything up.

Zach starts to drag his tongue along the underside of Alfie's cock in a way that distracts him for a while. It's a shame that the skilful ministrations can't still Alfie's mind as well, but he has the newspaper for that. He plucks The Times from the side-table and starts, as usual, with the _births, deaths and marriages_ pages. He tells himself that this is integral to staying abreast of the news, that the flicker of relief he feels when the Shelby name is absent from all three categories is merely indigestion. 

He never saw the marriage announcement, published as it was when Alfie was still in a medically-induced stupor, but the birth had come as a shock. He fucking well knows what a marriage entails, but the timing was a slap to his damaged face — the speed with which Tommy had moved on.

It’s the _deaths_ column to which Alfie pays special attention now. His own name has already been featured, of course, but it can only be a matter of time before Tommy's joins him there. That rage and ambition and self-loathing has always been a toxic mix, and who’s gonna stop him now? Undermine his arrogance? Knock him off his little perch and catch him as he falls? Who's gonna fucking well _hold_ him for that matter? Drag him out of his nightmares and tell 'im he's still fuckin' _good_?? Lizzie _fucking_ Stark? Alfie scoffs aloud at the very idea. 

How could Lizzie ever comprehend the things Tommy's done, the horrors he's seen? The darkest parts of Tommy’s mind that Alfie sought out to worship? Does she even _know_ about the migraines? Do any of those selfish fuckers care? Alfie can feel his own pulse thudding in his neck. He reminds himself, forcibly, that this is none of his business now. Tommy’s made his bed and it's his to damn well lie in.

He slams the newspaper down on the table with too much force, sending the gun clattering onto the floor. Zach responds with a shocked sound before smoothing his hands over Alfie's thighs in a soft, placating motion. It couldn't be more patronising if he mumbled, _"there, there_ ," and it makes Alfie's hackles rise. He grabs Zach's hair in one hand and pulls him forward sharply, relishing the choking sounds. Zach earns his keep after that, finishing the job with Alfie’s cock pushed down his throat and barely enough air to breathe. When Alfie comes it's without a sound, just a long, hard clenching of muscles that releases the tension for a while. It's not long before boredom starts to creep through his veins once more.When did the days get so fucking long? It’s not even 9am.

He must doze off for a while, because he's woken at ten o'clock sharp by Rachel bringing them tea on a delicate silver tray. Zach is curled into the wicker chair opposite, with the newspaper folded in his lap and a frown on his face. 

“Seven across — _a house fit for corvids_ ," he says, without looking up. "Ten letters. Third letter, r."

"Parliament," Alfie replies in a heartbeat.

"Can't be," says Zach. "It's a _murder_ of crows, not a parliament."

"Not crows, rooks. Crows are solitary creatures. Rooks, on the other hand, they are noisy, mindless fuckwits ... flapping about after each other in great clouds of mayhem. It's a parliament of _rooks." Fuckin' appropriate._

Alfie can't help but picture Tommy, dressed to the nines in the House of Commons, pitting himself in with men far worse than the crooks and cut-throats he's battled thus far. None of his business, Alfie reminds himself. Again. Tommy’s made that more than clear with his silence. 

There have been nights when he's hated Tommy with all of his heart. For making him feel so alive that this living death is all the more painful in contrast. He knows Tommy’s protected himself the only way he knows how, by rebuilding that shell Alfie worked so hard to crack, by closing in on himself. 

Alfie's just the collateral damage. And damaged he fucking well is.

But it's like with his face. The agony was all-consuming to start with, so blinding it stole his ability to think of anything else. And yet his treacherous body went and healed itself _._ Survived the initial wound and the opiate-haze that followed. Survived the endless nights spent reliving the pain over and over and wishing that he _had_ died. And, yes, the world will look forever different through a cloudy eye and a broken heart, but he can at least _see_ once more. There is a peace in knowing it's all behind him; the worst has happened and yet here he is. In fucking Margate. It’s a peace he knows Tommy will never find.

"Nine down,” says Zach, “ _dreams of rooks circling overhead.”_

 _“_ Fuckin' unoriginal whoever wrote this. Should be fired. How many letters _?”_ Alfie asks.

“Seven, two, three, three.”

“Oh come on now. Use your loaf!”

“What?” Zach demands, his face all pinched and pissy.

Alfie is frequently astounded at Zach’s ability to hold a decent conversation on Homer but lack basic general knowledge. The perils of the English public school system, right there. God help Charlie. "Castles in the air,” he sighs, watching as Zach counts out the letters with his pencil.

“What the hell does that mean?” Zach asks.

“It’s an idiom,” Alfie sighs.

“I realise that, Alfie. I'm not an imbecile. What does it _mean_?”

“It means an idea or plan that is unlikely to ever come to fruition. A daydream. An idle fancy, if you will. Much like my chances of getting a day’s peace with you around.”

“Charming.”

“Charm was never a prerequisite in my line of work. Now, why don’t you fuck off and walk my dog, hmm? Leave me to me own castles.”

Zach does exactly that.

This whole house is Alfie’s castle in the air. Purchased with such modest hopes — a few snatched Sundays laying in bed; the smell of Sweet Aftons in every room. Occasional visits from Charlie perhaps (that kid would've fuckin' _loved_ Cyril). He looks around at the unnerving stillness of his cluttered living room and sees more of a cage than a castle. Complete with a stuffed dead crow. The only thing he knows about cages is that you ought to leave the door open — you never know what might fly in.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's ridiculous, really, the way they dance around this. As if Zach doesn't know who Alfie's thinking of every time the sky is clear and his good eye clouds. As if he hasn't seen the words that Alfie scribbles late at night. As if Alfie's compulsive philosophising isn't a poorly constructed disguise for heartbreak. For resignation. If he's honest, Zach is starting to find it just a little pathetic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to listen to what Alfie is listening to, it's this: 
> 
> https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=x21PlwRi-M8
> 
> (Thanks phiosa)

Zach stands in the dusty antiques shop turning over the glass paperweight in his hands; there's a large scorpion suspended in its centre, which he hopes will appeal to his boss's darker tastes. It’s become something of habit, Zach returning from his walks with random items to add to the museum of oddity in which he now lives. Occasionally it’s a find from the beach — a shell or an interesting piece of driftwood — but more often than not, it's a strange trinket unearthed in one of these dim, tatty antiques shops that litter the back lanes of town. There's little telling which offerings Alfie will accept into his collection and which will be cast off with a grunt; he’s as eccentric in his curation as he is in all other aspects of his life.

Zach has learnt, via Olly, (and after one-too-many questionable yarns about the provenance of this painting or that carriage clock) that the Margate house was a probate sale; purchased complete with the remnants of a ninety-year old spinster's life. Alfie had insisted on keeping most items and supplementing them with bizarre and macabre additions — like the stuffed birds that Zach detested — as if surrounding himself with death and decay might ward off the real thing. To Zach's mind the bullet should have put paid to that theory, but it's done nothing to lessen Alfie's fascination with all things morbid.

Zach pays for this latest gift. Although gifting’s not really the point. The point is to open a door into conversation ... he has long-since learnt that the days on which Alfie talks are far preferable to those filled with silence. The man wasn't built for brooding.

***

It was the silence that had disturbed Zach most when he'd first arrived in Margate. He'd awoken in a lace-edged prison, high as hell, knowing only that he’d confessed too much to the wrong fucking man and outed a dangerous client. Not that he'd had much choice in the matter, the feral dog who'd come looking for him had cut half a dozen boys before Zach's pimp intervened (and lost a finger for his trouble). Zach was hardly going to keep his mouth shut to protect some client who'd fucked him only once. A week later two different men had come looking, and Zach had ended up here, in the guest-bedroom of aforementioned dangerous client. He was sensible enough to be terrified when Solomons stood at the foot of his bed, arms folded and said,

“You owe me, Zacharius. I have a proposition.”

The arrangement they came to worked. Solomons paid Zach enough to keep him in cigarettes and silk shirts and just enough opium to blur the edges. In return Zach had to walk the crazy old bugger's lump of a dog; rub his neck and back and cock, and above all, keep his mouth shut. “You’ve said quite enough to the wrong fucking people. That mouth belongs to me.”

But _fuck_ if Alfie hadn’t been _angry_ back then, blowing up like an offshore storm at random provocations. (Three maids had quit in Zach’s first month, a fourth was fired for serving honey.)

Zach's inherent laziness soon won over his fear. It helped that he was stubborn too; drawn to danger; versed in the ways to pacify a man with hands and lips and tongue. He had the makings of a good deal here, with a rather intriguing old man, and he learned to smooth out Alfie’s mood by smoothing out his back. It wasn't long before they’d settled into a fragile sort of truce.

And then the shooting happened. And all hell broke loose. 

Zach surprised himself, as much as Olly, by wanting his boss to pull through. By _wanting_ to stick around despite the ample opportunity Alfie's 'death' might have given him to do otherwise. It wasn’t only because he had nowhere to go either (although that too was true — his father had cut him off the second he’d discovered his ‘sordid preferences’). Life in Margate suited Zach and, despite everything, he might just have developed a soft-spot for the miserable old gangster.

Alfie had been as surprised as anyone to see Zach still around when he finally returned home from hospital three months later. 

"Thought you'd 'ave sold all the silver and fucked off back to London," he'd said.

"Stayed to watch the place, Alfie." 

"Realised you'd spend the lot on opium and cocaine and be dead within the year, more like." 

Zach had the decency not to deny it. 

"How is the world's most highly paid dog-walker?" Olly asked, parking Alfie's wheelchair by the double doors.

"I'm very well, Olly. Thank you for asking. As is Cyril himself." Zach fucking hated Olly. Smug, twitchy little brown-nose.

"D'you want me to deal with him, Alfie?" Olly asked.

"Deal with 'im?" Alfie repeated. "Do I want you to _deal_ with _Cyril_?"

Olly merely cleared his throat and glared at Zach. "No, with ... Zacharias." 

"If you ain't dealt with 'im for the last three months I can't think why you're gonna start today. Bit fucking late _now_ innit?"

Zach couldn't help the smug smile that tugged at his features. If Olly was too thick to realise that the way to Alfie's heart was through his mastiff then more fool him. 

"Besides, it ain't up to me no more. I am fuckin' _dead_. Remember? Hmm? S'up to Cyril now, innit?" If Cyril wants his walker to stay, 'e can stay."

*** 

He’s been calmer since the hospital, Alfie. Still prone to fits of melancholy and bitterness, but less angry. Which seems illogical, given — if Zach has interpreted the snatched-morphine-fuelled ramblings correctly — his ex-lover was largely responsible for his almost-death. That would seem provocation enough for some truly righteous fury. But then this _is_ Alfie. Unpredictable to the last.

”Come on Cyril,” Zach says, stepping out into the sun-drenched afternoon with his scorpion safe in a paper-bag. "Time to head back to The Mansion. Let's see what he makes of this.”

Cyril shifts his backside from the pavement with a wide yawn, and they traipse back through the town.

It's quiet when they enter the house, except for the music playing on the gramaphone. Zach recognises it vaguely, as Alfie's favourite piece; a sad and lilting composition by Butterworth. It doesn’t bode well for his boss’s mood. He wanders into the living room, and finds Alfie lying flat on the floor, eyes closed. He’s so still that Zach is momentarily worried, stopping to stare until he's sure that the chest beneath those waistcoats is still rising and falling.

“Alfie, come on, get up,” he says. His voice sounds sharper than it should, giving away his unease.

“Back’s killing me,” Alfie replies.

Zach is flooded with something that feels half-way between relief and annoyance. “Well, get up and I’ll give you a massage, then. I’ll make it a good one.”

When there’s no response whatsoever, he bends down to take Alfie’s hands. Christ, he reeks of booze. Rum, if Zach’s not mistaken. He’s only ever seen Alfie drink once, and that time had not ended well.

“Rachel!” he bellows. “Need some help in here!"

“I sent her home,” Alfie slurs.

“What the fuck? Alfie, you don’t bloody drink.”

“Special ‘cassion,” he says, one hand reaching up to paw the seat of the sofa, where the newspaper lies open. There, in black and white, is a picture of Thomas Shelby OBE, MP for Birmingham South. It's an opinion piece, a profile on the rise of a shady politician and his links to the BUF. Zach takes a closer look at the man he’s heard so much about. He’s striking, no doubt about it. He heard a lot about those eyes when Alfie was too gone to care, but all Zach sees is a glare so cold it sends shivers down his spine. It’s irrational to hate a man he’s never met, but hatred is what Zach feels.

“Okay, okay,” he sighs, settling down on the floor, because, with the best will in the world (which Zach rarely has) he is not going to be able to heave Alfie anywhere that Alfie doesn’t want to go. May as well settle himself in for a while. “Bought you something,” he says, fishing the paper bag from his pocket and pressing it into Alfie’s hands.

Alfie’s eyes pop open and he strains to lift his head. His gaze is distant, but his fingers fumble until he’s pulled out the paperweight and lifted it to his face.

“It’s a scorpion,” Zach adds, helpfully.

“No, it’s not,” Alfie says after a few seconds.

 _Shit, he’s_ _as sozzled as he looks._

“S’just the shell,” Alfie explains, turning it over in his hands.

Zach looks again and sees that Alfie is right. The _scorpion_ inside its glassy tomb is merely an empty skin, deceptively lifelike in its completeness.

“In the desert, it takes hours and hours of hard work for them to shed this outer layer.”

Zach knows the start of a tale when he hears one and so he shifts, making himself more comfortable against the edge of the sofa. 

"It starts with a tiny crack, just a minuscule split in the skin. S'called molting. Which makes it sound passive, don’t it? — like a dog shedding fur — but it ain’t. It’s a wrestle. A full-on fight. They struggle and struggle until they’ve shed their armour and left it behind on the sand.” Alfie’s head thuds back onto the rug and his eyes close again. “Fools some predators, for a while, that skin what looks like a carcass. But the scorpion himself, he's fuckin’ exposed now, inn'he?? Soft and vulnerable, for a few terrifying hours.”

Zach has the familiar feeling that his boss isn’t talking about scorpions at all.

“That’s when I ‘ad him,” Alfie says quietly.

Zach rests a hand on Alfie’s arm and lets his fingers walk slowly down until they're touching his gold-ringed hand. 

“Tommy?” he asks carefully. It’s always a risk, mentioning that name, but Alfie mentioned it first and his defences are definitely down.

There’s barely a hum of agreement before Alfie carries on. “Takes days for their new exoskeleton to harden. But harden it does. With time. Til it’s just as tough as it ever was.”

They sit there listening to the music, each lost in their own thoughts. It's ridiculous really, the way they dance around this. As if Zach doesn't know who Alfie's thinking of every time the sky is clear and his good eye clouds. As if he hasn't seen the words that Alfie scribbles late at night. As if Alfie's compulsive philosophising isn't a poorly constructed disguise for heartbreak. For resignation. If he's honest, Zach is starting to find it just a little pathetic.

When the gramophone stops playing, he persuades Alfie into the bedroom for that massage.

“Come on, everything off,” he says, “I’ll sort out those aching bones.”

Zach helps Alfie out of his layers of clothes, and _that_ certainly is a struggle. He can't help but think of that empty skin, of how it's Alfie, not Tommy, who's the scorpion — more vulnerable than he’ll admit. Once Alfie’s naked, Zach straddles his hips and rubs a few experimental strokes up the length of his spine; it earns him an appreciative groan.

He’s been in Alfie’s bed often enough but _this_ feels unfamiliar. Alfie’s so boneless and unresistant that Zach feels almost protective. Maybe he’ll fuck Alfie afterwards, face down on the bed, just like this, in the way that had felt like a novelty after the bullet, but has since become something of a routine. He suspects Alfie prefers the anonymity of it; prefers not to look, not to see, just to take the pleasure and the comfort of it without acknowledgement or reciprocation. Maybe it’ll be one of those rare days when Zach’s allowed to stay a while afterwards.

He warms oil in his hands and steadies himself, smoothing his way up the surprisingly strong planes of Alfie's back. He likes the way the muscles move beneath the skin, and the low, grateful sound it draws from Alfie's chest. Zach moves on to an arm, stroking all the way from Alfie’s shoulder to his wrist in a firm, smooth motion. He stops to remove Alfie’s bracelets, to loosen the rings and place everything on the bedside so that he can stroke again from neck to fingers, without any obstruction. He's thorough when he does this, working every knot and sinew until he eases the tension out of each fingertip in turn.

He repeats the movements on Alfie’s left arm, rubbing the muscles, removing the bracelets, working each ring from Alfie's fingers until he reaches the little gold skylark and Alfie’s fist clenches like a vice.

“Not that one,” Alfie says, his voice a snarl against the mattress. For some reason it stokes a fury in Zach, makes him brave, or stupid, or both.

“It’s only a fucking ring, Alfie, why can’t you just take it off?” He isn’t stupid, he knows where it must have come from — that it wasn't there before the hospital and hasn't been removed since. He pictures that heartless glare in the paper and feels irrationally livid. That fucker has clearly moved on with his life and he wishes that Alfie would too. "Why the hell does it matter so much? It's only a fucking ring!”

Zach barely has time to register the rapid shift of muscles, before he's reminded that Alfie might be vulnerable, but there's still a sting in his tail. Alfie has somehow turned himself and wrapped a hand around Zach's throat. 

“Why does it matter so much?” Alfie repeats. His voice is so quiet it’s terrifying; his eyes are burning with rage. Zach's heart hammers in response, veins pulsing hard against the cage of Alfie's fist.

"Why does it _matter_ so much he asks?” There’s almost a smirk on Alfie’s face; like he knows a great truth that Zach can't see, couldn't possibly understand.“Because it was all he could fuckin' well give me, Zach. And I didn’t deserve even that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erm ... I'm not really sure how to say this, but that is it. The end of the series. After 13 months of nonsense this is just what happened. Being more of a pantser than a plotter, I have little control over these things (which is something I couldn't have fathomed before I started writing this!) 
> 
> I'm not saying I'll never write for this series again, but I guess I'm not making any promises just now either. I am emotional. 
> 
> So I'd like to say a truly enormous thank you to everyone who has stuck with me through this unfathomable number of words. To those who left kudos, and especially those who left comments, I love you all, you have no idea how much you improved my year! I never would have had the confidence to carry on writing without all of your wonderful words. 
> 
> To those that made art inspired by these fics (def-not, wtma, sholomons), I am incredibly humbled and very, very grateful. 
> 
> A few special thank yous go to: whentommymetalfie (for basically getting me onto this ship and constantly inspiring me with amazing comments). To muse boundinshallows for being an all-round fandom angel and a fabulous beta; to tinypinetrees for permanently enthusiastic head-canoning (and always sharing my kinks); to mobile_mom for totally getting it (life, juggling, everything) and brightening every day; to phiosa for educating me in classical music; to weeo and def-not and mafaldaz and all those whose comments always make me feel great and everyone in the T/A discord for being such an inspiring, talented and amusing bunch. It's so dangerous doing this because I don't want to leave anyone out; I have looked forward to each and every one of your reactions more than is healthy (and now I'm dreading them) Please feel free to yell at me in the comments, or on tumblr (mintjamsblog).
> 
> Right, now I feel like I'm writing my own obituary or something, so I'll stop. I have other things that I want to write, so you've not heard the last of me. Thanks for sticking with this! Xxx


End file.
